Your Ghost
by Superagaentv
Summary: Quidditch League 2016
Once again on his own he took advantage of the solitude – letting his eyes fall shut and his guard lower. Sitting with his mother and father hadn't been too taxing. Nonetheless, he was aware of the unease that bubbled far beneath his skin, waiting to conquer him. Far above him in the dead of night a full moon rose with the full taint of spilt souls, calling him towards a desperate memory. It was an occurrence he did not understand. Ever since his departure from the light the boy-turned-man waited impatiently for her return. It had to be a memory that surfaced. He was resigned to accept it all.

Dropping the quill against the parchment, for the words would simply not flow, he raised his fingers to the ceiling and cracked them against the ill-tempered sky. The room of the tiny apartment of the former Head Boy seemed to close in around him; the walls holding the wolves at bay, the darkness fighting the angels. Darkness rolled within the tumultuous heavens, flashes of light cracking unevenly – lighting up the sky – while rain pattered gently against the window pane.

It suited his mood.

It welcomed his ghosts.

The slightest movement, the flicker of a candle's shadow in the wall.

A tiny rush of white fabric, swirling around an immortal form.

A hushed whisper in the wind, his name against her lips somewhere in a dream.

A hand extended in the moonlight.

Blue eyes with dark shadows pressed into the once soft flesh.

The soft smell of rain upon his sheets, where dark curls once lay.

A sharp knock against the window pane startled him out of his reverie, making him swivel towards the glass; a _crack_ of lightning illuminating the shape. There was nothing like an ill-timed owl in the wee hours of the morning and this one was not particularly happy with him as he slowly approached the window. As he reached for the money to pay for the post the snowy owl nipped at his fingers, ruffling its feathers in well placed disgust.

"Cantankerous old bastard," he growled, paying it and grabbing the letter from its beak before watching it fly away. Bringing a bleeding finger to his lips he shut the window with his elbow, his eyes focused on more important things. "Bollocks," he stated, reading the name written clearly in a hand so familiar. Ripping open the envelope his lips held a grim line, not once twitching with the hate that ravaged his system. Letting out a scream he crumbled the paper, his tongue flickering over his lips like a snake.

Calmly he tried to breathe, his fists balling and un-balling until his nails had dug holes into his palms. He would have to attend the trial, as a matter of privilege.

 _Traitor! Bloody fool-_

"Barty?" a voice so very ethereal whispered, called; ensnaring, moving through the cracks of the door. So feminine, so fragile. He couldn't be certain if it was a ghost, another of his day dreams, when it seemed so real. "Barty…please."

"Just a minute," he barked, looking around the messy place with a cringe. Moving his hand, a mere flick of the wrist, and things started moving to their proper places.

It took only a few strides to reach the door, hesitation heavy in his bones.

A mere matter of minutes.

Stark and startling fear making his fingers shake as they closed around the handle of the door.

It was worth each waking, weary, moment as from the shadows of the room he saw her silhouette within a flash of light, the deep blue eyes almost glowing in the darkness as she trembled from wet and cold. Little puddles formed at her feet, for she was soaked to the bone.

"Eve." The word came to his lips like a traitor to the pulpit of his doom, his hand moving of it's own volition – reaching through shadow, and better judgement – outstretched, like a child. And she took it, her own fingers reaching into the darkness, gripping his wrist gently with her tiny hands. She was so cold.

Had she always been so fragile?

"What are you doing here, Greengrass?" Letting the door slam behind her, the gruffness in his voice surprised him as he pulled her in, walking them towards the bedroom where he could make her warm once more. Through the darkness of his apartment he could see the way her dark curls lay flat against her cheeks and neck, the white dress she wore pressed flat against her skin.

Still, she did not answer him, and he abruptly stopped, wheeling on his heels to face her, not expecting the shadows that flickered across her skin. Those eyes of the darkest blue, so strong in the flash of lightning behind them, held the dark shadows of no sleep marked with the weary stains from tears. Her skin was pale, like the very moon hidden behind the clouds, timorous all through her soul, like a frightened bird.

"Eve," He couldn't help himself, moving the hair away from her skin, cringing at the blue colour of her lips. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know," again her words whispered, softly brushing past his senses like the midnight touch of a lover, "but I'm here now."

Every moment he had waited for this.

Every heartbeat was hers.

"Let's get you warm." Moving away, dropping her hand to retrieve dry clothes from the wardrobe, he caught the faint whiff of lavender and lilac at the doors of the old wooden cage. Her wand lay there, cracked and broken – much like his mind.

Much like his soul.

"You aren't real," he stated, the gruff growl masking hateful tears.

"I am real enough," the ethereal creature stated, walking forward to touch him softly, a simple gesture enough to bring him to his knees. He glanced fearfully at this supposed apparition over his shoulder, but at no time could he bring himself to wish her away.

"I watched you die." The croak of the unspoken was raw to his lips as he pulled her close; feeling the realness and the damn smell of rain that clung to her. As her arms went about him she nodded, her head moving against his chest, her fingers grasping against the fabric of his shirt.

"In a way."

"Moody, he-"

"Yes."

"I couldn't protect you," he admitted, the hatred for the Auror ever growing in his mind. If only he had the power to embrace her – never wanting to let go – never needing to mend his broken soul. "Why didn't you stay away, like I begged you to? You could have gone with my stupid father, gone anywhere."

"I am your ghost, Barty. Don't you remember?" she whispered, touching his face, referring to how they had been in school. It had always been the joke of their Houses that the Greengrass girl – the blue-blooded Hufflepuff – had been his shadow.

There was no light in her eyes tonight, the flame did not exist there.

She was still lying on the ground in the forest where once she had been running from a group of relentless pursuers. Chased like a dog to be put down.

She, whose only fault was loving too much.

She had been his light.

She had been snuffed out.

Her white dress covered with mud.

Her hand in his, the rain falling lightly on them, as she slipped from his fingers.

The dark of her curls lying still against her cheeks.

" _Barty._ "

A whisper never heard, a wrong never made right.

Those fools claimed to stand for what was good, for what was veracious.

"You need to go." Pushing her away he shut the wardrobe, turning quickly around as if that would send her back to the depths from whence she came. "Leave me!" he bellowed, turning to face her one last time. "Don't ever come back. Do you understand?"

"I'm your ghost," Eve whispered with a sad smile. "Remember."


End file.
